Ramblers

I am a rambler. If I get nervous, I ramble. If there is a long, awkward pause, I ramble. If I’m excited, I ramble. Therefore, many times a week, or month, and definitely within a year, I find myself rambling.

The problem with rambling is that you always say the wrong things. Always.

In fact, I’ll just say I’m not witty, or clever, or funny, or charming, ever, when I ramble.

This is a quality that I highly dislike about myself. In my head, I imagine saying the right thing at the right moment, but in reality, I probably just said the opposite of everything I was thinking, and instead of the something decent, I just said something off the wall. It was probably awkward, or random, or who knows.

Man. Can’t there be an invention to save me from the humiliation of my rambling mouth? Something that, right at the moment I begin to talk, will literally make the words disappear as they come flying out?

I think I’d be better off if I were a mute with a pencil and a notepad. Because what’s weird is that I always seem to say what I want when I write: I never blur the lines, I never get too far off track, I try my best to say what I mean.

Does this happen to you? Cute boy approaches. you're giving a presentation, you're trying to explain a feeling, a thought... and you become a rambling idiot? Goodbye English degree and supposedly learned ways of communication…goodbye; I’ll see you in five minutes as I’m walking away, staring blankly ahead, replaying all of the things I “should have said” as I remember the things I did say.

There’s no cure for rambling. None. This is who I am. A rambler. I take it with a grain of sugar (who wants a grain of salt in an open wound…not I). Maybe a cube of sugar…

I’ve gotten better at just letting the pauses go, though. I’ve also gotten better when I’m excited…but the nervous one still gets me. It’s like, my heart beats faster…which pumps more blood…which carries more oxygen…which produces more carbon dioxide…and as the carbon dioxide is being exhaled it gets tangled with all of these words that are stuck in my throat (for good cause, might I add) and in one exhale…there they go. There they go.

“So long words, and pray, do try to get lost in the wind before you find that poor person’s ears. Please, for their sake, and for mine, don’t find them…”

So, here’s to the ramblers. I’m one of you, and I understand the want to cover your mouth with a hand, or tape, or glue. And if you ramble to me, I'll try to remind myself that what you really meant to say was brilliant, and funny, and charming, and exactly the right thing at the right moment, and it just got lost somewhere along the way...

Strangers

Stranger: "A person whom one does not know or with whom one is not familiar"

I just accurately described the majority of the people you see on a daily basis. Strangers.

I'm deeply fascinated by strangers, so much so that some strangers- those who I see regularly in my walks or daily routines-have been given nick names, like "Walt," "dread headed guy," and "my backpack guy."

They're all really vague, superficial descriptions of people I don't know. The nicknames stem from unique characteristics in the person's clothes or beard or habit of always wearing head phones..."head phone girl."

This past Sunday, I did something unlike my normal routine and went to church. I don't disown God, though I might pretend I do sometimes when I'm moody and weird, but I've had an on-again off-again relationship with the church for some time.

I say this honestly, because in disowning some aspects of the church I've learned some really beautiful things about her. "Her" being "The Church" and not "the big white building where warm fuzzy feelings occur twice a week," but the bride of Christ.

"Beautiful things" referring to vulnerability, uncomfortable honesty, having milk stouts and Jesus as the same table, and laughing with "strangers."

The bride of Christ is a lot more rough around the edges than I originally thought her. I had this image of a solid white marble woman or maybe a solid white wooden woman or maybe a square white, wooden woman with either a cross or a bell tower atop her perfect head. I had this idea that the church was in women's casseroles, and in small group meetings, and pamphlets with schedules and events. I thought she kept her lips pursed tight, and her dress was without stain or mark, and her shoes were new and shiny.

I think if we saw her personified, I don't think she'd look anything like the above description, I think she'd look tired, but I think her eyes would be warm. I think they'd laugh out in love. I think her hands would be calloused and her feet worn and I think her back would ache from carrying others, or bending to help others. I think she'd be beautiful in a way that only people with good hearts are beautiful, and I think she'd be gentle and kind, but she'd have a steady hand and a steady heart.

I think she'd know the strangers, or she'd try better to know them, and in knowing them, I think she'd love them selflessly, without reason or reward or pride.

I say this because on Sunday, the pastor talked about our purpose being, "to do good works which God created in advance for us to do," (Ephesians 2:10). He was talking about being "her," being The Church. Loving and giving more because loving and giving more is what we're here for.

"It's what we're here for. It's what we're here for. It's what we're here for." he said over and over, and each time I knew to my core that he was right.

I just left Kroger. When I walked out with my three bags of groceries clutched in my hands, the rain was blowing across the cars, and the lightening was way too close for comfort, and my car was too away for walking. So, I stood there, and when I saw an older woman, I smiled at her and commented on the rain...and in that moment, she went from being a stranger to being Joyce.

Joyce was an older woman, with reddish colored hair and wild looking flowers in her grocery cart. Her car was just in view, and her husband sat in the passenger seat because he was no longer able to drive and he had a hard time hearing anything. Joyce had broken both of her feet just 6 months ago from walking and opted out of surgery because the risk was too much for her. She wanted to know what I studied in school, and she wanted to know my plans, and she wanted to know where everyone went in the summer. I asked Joyce if she liked milk or yogurt and if she had  a history of osteoporosis is her family or if she knew her current bone density because I was genuinely concerned that her feet broke because she was walking on them. And Joyce told me she didn't like milk and never drank it, and I told her about almond milk and soy milk and the chocolate chews with calcium that taste so good and about taking them twice a day to help keep her bones strong. And she laughed and nodded  her head, and we watched a fire truck drive by in the storm, and we talked like a young girl and a grandmother standing outside of a grocery store on a stormy day while hard-of-hearing-grandpa sat in the passenger side of the car in the parking lot.

But when I left, I told her it was nice to meet her and that my name was Martha Lee Anne, and she said, "that's such a pretty name. I'm Joyce." And I laughed again, and told her it was so nice to meet her, and I walked in the rain to my car, put my groceries in the back seat, and got in the front seat and buckled up. And only when I was pulling out of the parking lot did I think, "you should help her. you should help her put her groceries in her car and love her like She (the church) would."

But the front tires of my car had met the road, and I didn't know how "weird" it would be to go back, and so I didn't, but I should have. And this is why I should have.

But when I left, I told her it was nice to meet her and that my name was Martha Lee Anne, and she said, "that's such a pretty name, I'm Joyce." And I laughed again, and told her that it was so nice to meet her, and walked in the rain to my car, put my groceries in the back seat, and got in the front seat and buckled up. And when I was pulling out of the parking lot I thought, "you should help her. you should help her put her groceries in her car and love her like the church would." And so, I drove around the corner and pulled back in to the parking lot, and Joyce was still standing there with those flowers in her shopping cart, and I got my umbrella and went back to her, laughing, and apologized for not helping before, but asked her if she'd like for me to help. And Joyce, being as kind as she was, let me give her my umbrella and carry her groceries to her car. And I said hello to her husband, and said, "you're welcome," when she thanked me, and mentioned the sermon on Sunday about loving people like Christ, and she was so very happy that someone helped her because she had broken both of her feet, just six months ago, and they were so very tired, and the rain was so heavy, and her husband couldn't drive and was hard of hearing. And she hugged me and thanked me, and I tried to love her like the church so she could see the Father. And when she left, I went back to my car, and everything made sense. I made sense, and she made sense, and us bumping into each other made sense, and I knew that God used me to love someone he very much wanted to love. The story was being written, and I was in it.

Strangers are strangers because your story isn't overlapping with theirs. But what if they're supposed to? In fact, I know they're supposed to because that's the whole point. The point is for us to learn and love one another. The point is to let our sentences and chapters overlap to make a beautiful, cohesive story. But if we keep stopping somewhere in the middle, the story doesn't get written. I think I learned something valuable today, and I saw a good deal of the story being written and where it was going, but I can only imagine the story that could have been written, and the chapters that could have come after in both mine and Joyce's life. God is the writer trying to work the pen, but the story can't happen if we remove ourselves from it. What is a story after all without blank sheets of paper? What is a church without people willing to love selflessly? '

How beautiful is the story God wants to write for me? I don't know, but I want to find out.